


The Lost Art of Holding Silence

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And Selina's cat Cookie is the real MVP, Batdad, Bruce is grieving, But I try to incorporate bits of canon for funsies, But you can take it as romantic or platonic, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Catlad!Tim, Catmom - Freeform, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jack Drake is an Alcoholic, Kind of? Not really?, Minor BatCat, Minor Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Timmy is a pure boy and Selina basically strong arms him and Bruce into interacting, androphobia, jason is dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16223489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: "Just a stray I’ve taken in," Selina waves off. It's not another moment that the act slips, and she’s back to looking out at Gotham, like it’s something that goes and goes and has gone too far to get back. “But this one, Bat…. This one I don’t think I can help.”





	1. Prologue: In Concern of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this is pretty Selina heavy, but I promise Bruce will come.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: heavily implied/referenced child abuse, alcoholism, implied PTSD, minor/canonical character death, and canon-typical gore and violence, especially with regard to minors. I don't provide content warnings before individual chapters purely because I don't want to spoil things for other readers, but please keep these warnings in mind. Your mental health is always more important. <3

* * *

 

_“Coming down, the world turned over,_

_And angels fall without you there,_

_And I go on as you get colder—_

_Or are you someone's prayer?”_

-“ _Black Balloon,” Goo Goo Dolls_

* * *

 

“Tim?” the man repeats, nervous.

There’s a table in his sight, and he knows tables have four legs, not six. There’s another pair of muscle-coiled limbs there anyway, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. They’re shaking faintly; he can already see as much from where he’s sitting on the other side of the room.

“Tim?” the man retries, “Tim, come here.”

Silence pervades. It’s quiet enough that he can hear the boy’s breathing and nothing more, a bit ragged, tight. Scared.

“It’s okay,” the man offers instead.

He almost thinks he’s not going to get a response, numerous exhales escaping into the quiet, and it’s as if he can see each breath, count them in ones and twos, until slowly—painfully—a few fingers pull back the edges of the table cloth. The plastic parts like weeping willow boughs, revealing cautious eyes and pale skin.

“That’s right,” the man extends, offering both hands, palms up—a gesture of goodwill that Tim greets with a stare like it’s something alien.

It’s funny in a way, as this is a situation that they’re both well-familiar with by now: There’s a burn of liquor in the man’s throat, and things go dark, always dark. The next thing the man knows, Tim is under the table, spooked. It’s made more bizarre, because the table is always the first place Tim goes. It wouldn’t be able to protect him any, flimsy and old, but still, that’s the place the boy’s picked. Tim spends more time there than the man realizes, sitting beneath the spider-spun webs and listening—measuring the seconds while he waits for the episode to pass.

It’s passed now.

And so, the table cloth is pulled back, and the blank expression follows, made empty by nerves. A few more moments slip by in which the boy doesn’t speak, just hesitantly draws closer to the couch where his father is sitting—one step on tile, another—until the six-year-old jerks forward and is buried in his father’s shirt. He’s been reduced to nothing more than a mess of black hair and shaking grip, unsure if letting go is okay but unsure if holding on is okay either.

Unsure.

Tim’s that way a lot.

This, though—This is Dad’s voice now, the calm one that follows pats on the head and things like “good morning” and “goodnight” and “I love you.”

“It’s okay now,” Tim hears, feels the voice rumble against chest like thunder. “It’s okay…"

Dad means it. But the boy’s eyes are still wide, watchful as they stare through arms at a bottle on the floor. It’s empty, and the sharp smell is all that’s processing past hair-raised skin and adrenaline.

It’s always the same after these nights.

Always.

Dad sleeps it off, and when he’s awake, he’s better. His head hurts, he says, and he drinks a lot of water and coffee and takes some pills from a drawer. Still, it’s better than him drinking whatever drink’s in those thin-necked bottles on the floor. The glass is still gleaming demons like it’s something prone to possession or dark magic, and Tim nuzzles closer to Dad, ignoring the alcohol scent in the man’s clothes and the way it’s choking out air; he can’t bear to let go.

“I’m done,” the words come.

Expected.

Dad always says that, and the next day, the next week, there are more bottles on the floor. It’s a cycle Tim knows. He’s waiting for it to break, because he hears that’s what cycles need to end: a break. What it’d take for that to happen, though, he doesn’t know. Does Dad need to break, or does Tim?

“I’m done,” Dad repeats, his brain shutting off and simply repeating. He’s probably tired, and Tim’s not sure if he’ll remember any of this when he wakes up next. He doesn’t remember a lot of things anymore—nothing past Mom. That’s as far as Dad gets before he’s swinging home with those glass bottles like they’re his only friends in the world.

Dad’s got Tim, though.

Tim doesn’t understand why that isn’t enough.

“I won’t…” Dad’s saying, working out through mostly immobile lips. “No more. ‘Promise.”

It almost sounds convincing. Tim holds on to that small speck of hope same as he holds on to Dad now, praying that the proximity can form a pact of sorts and make the man keep his promise. He always promises, and one day—just once—Tim would like for those to be kept.

“‘m done,” the words drone, and Tim holds on tighter. He can feel Dad dozing off again, can feel breaths even out against his ear until there’s just a heartbeat, simple music that makes Tim feel sleepy too. He’s tired. They both are, just two people beaten down by a cycle but sworn to it somehow, blackmailed by blackouts and whatever guilt Dad’s got festering in him like an ugly wound. 

_Break_ , Tim orders the air, demanding with halved-hope that slurred words turn into something more, something concrete.

He just wants Dad back.

He will. He’ll come back and Mom will too and everything will be like it was.

One day.

Until then, Tim holds silence and holds hope and holds Dad, and someway, somehow, he holds it all together. It’s what he does best, but he’s never sure—not really. Because there’s always a question searing his mind.

Because if Tim holds silence and holds hope and holds Dad, then who’s left to hold Tim?

He doesn’t know.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve to.


	2. And It Takes Three

That trip to Haley’s Circus wasn’t supposed to be a life-altering event. It’d been over five years since then, but for whatever reason, Tim never forgot it. He rationalized it as something that stuck out because it was the first time he realized life wasn’t perfect, a whole family—his first friend’s family—torn to pieces by the snap of a rope and the pull of gravity.

For years of Tim’s life, Dick Grayson was just a trapeze artist who he’d probably never see again but would think about often, someone who taught him to be brave and that good can come from bad.

It’s a thought that stuck because that was what Tim needed.

And yet, regardless of why that day mattered, Tim never expected it to be anything more than a memory, a recollection that his brain labeled as important and then slowly proceeded to forget anyway. It’s something that wasn’t supposed to come into play again, something that was supposed to stick in that one chapter in the exposition and remain there until the end.

But of course, it’s the second Tim thinks he knows how the story goes that everything changes. 

* * *

 

Tim’s not even aware his mouth has fallen open.

There were four of them. All in a row. A yellow cape, a bright grin, and a quadruple somersault splayed clear as day to everyone on the news. The camera’s changed back to the anchor, providing further details on the crime Batman and Robin just thwarted, but Tim’s still running the data and the numbers. There are three people in the world who can do a quadruple somersault, and only one of them fits the description of Robin, that one Tim’s met before and taken a photo with and looked up to for years.

Dick Grayson.

“What a bunch of crazies,” Dad snorts next to him, and Tim’s so out of it that he hardly registers the TV flickering to the sports channel. “Honestly, what self-respecting person would go parading around in a cape and tights at all hours of the night? I swear, that Bat wacko’s gonna kill someone one of these days.”

Tim’s a few seconds behind the conversation, still gaping at the screen and trying to wrap his mind around the epiphany. ( _Dick Grayson is Robin. Dick Grayson is Robin_.) He manages to pull himself together enough to offer an innocent observation. “I dunno,” he says smally, carefully, “Batman’s never killed anyone before.”

(That's right. No matter how bad someone is, no matter what they’ve done wrong, Batman always gives them another chance. Always.)

Dad simply shakes his head in disapproval, sober enough that he doesn’t raise his voice much or break anything. He just gives Tim that sour look that means “don’t contradict your father” and amends, “If he doesn’t kill someone, he’s gonna get _himself_ killed—or that partner of his, Bird Boy.”

“It’s Robin, Dad.”

_It’s Dick Grayson._

_~~And Robin won’t die.~~ _

“Whatever,” Dad excuses bitterly, and Tim manages to hide the wince that comes when Dad claps him lightly on the shoulder. There’s a bruise there from last week that’s still healing. Dad doesn’t know—doesn't remember. “You get on to bed. It’s past nine.”

“Where are you going?” Tim asks helplessly, feeling the weight shift on the couch when Dad gets up.

“I’m going out for a while.”

(For drinks, again.)

There’s a small wave of panic that follows the words, grips Tim’s gut like a leg-trap gone off, and Tim’s face shifts into the empty expression he proffers whenever Dad uses that euphemism. Tim’s silently saying “remember I’m here” and “you promised last week you’d quit.” More often than not, the expression doesn’t even say anything, just asks and asks: “Is it my fault?”

Dad never looks long enough to answer. 

The door closing snaps Tim back. He’s alone in the apartment now, a sports commentator on the TV babbling about the Gotham Blades and how this season looks hopeful for them. Tim switches it off. He’s trying to think of something other than finding Dad passed out on the bathroom floor in the morning. (It happened again the other day, and Tim just—He can’t forget it.) In the end, there’s only one thing that can keep Tim occupied, and it has him beelining for his bedroom.

____

The closet is thrown open, and Tim is digging through clutter. It doesn’t take him long to find it: The camera’s still there in the box, almost brand new and glinting happily. Tim could never bring himself to use it much before, the gift the last remnants of life before Mom died. Dad had helped him pick it out, and he used to smile so much more back then—They both did.

____

Tim turns the camera forward and stares at his reflection in the lens.

____

It’s a silent conversation between himself and the figure trapped there in the glass, Tim deciding how much he cares about this sudden compulsion, one that’s bordering on the insane, but still… Tim’s pretty sure he’s the only one who knows, and if he’s going to know half of it, he wants to know all of it.

____

It’s a control thing—something that's always slipping out of his fingers here.

____

_You could do it_ , a voice in his head argues. Dad won’t be back for hours, and there’s a determined look in his reflection that Tim’s never seen on his own face before. _You already know he’s Batman. Know he’s Bruce Wayne._

____

_What’s keeping you from learning more?_

____

Tim’s slipped out the window without another thought, the camera dangling from his neck and a rush in his veins. The soles of his shoes hit hard cement before he’s even processed he’s on the ground, sharp air in his lungs before he’s even realized he’s breathed. And something about it all makes him feel suddenly alive, feel like his and Dad’s reality in a small apartment in a big world are minuscule and unimportant, feel like he’s part of something larger than life and hopes and dreams. He just—

____

He has to know.

____

Has to be a part of that, a part of Batman and Robin.

____

A part of dark nights and caped crusades and Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson and Jason To—

____

And Tim's careful. He hides all the evidence, only sneaks out when Dad's not home. He gets away with it for a long time, too, longer than he thought he would, anyway. After three years, it almost becomes a routine of sorts, a hint of normality in abnormality, and Tim's so vigilant that he only makes one miscalculation, one mistake.

____

But that's the thing.

____

All it takes is the one. 

____


	3. The Stray

A thoughtful hum echoes.

“All bark and no bite,” Selina muses, eyes gleaning the silver necklace in her hands. It’s 24 karat with a swooping pattern that’s far too garish for her tastes. If that’s what sells, though, she isn’t going to say no. It’s still expensive—should be able to set her up for a fair while. However, she _had_ been looking forward to more of a challenge than what it took, just the cliché laser routine and no one to catch her. Bat is off handling Joker on the other side of town, the police are still recovering from something Crane cooked up last week, and overall, it makes for an uneventful Friday night.

Selina sighs and slips the necklace into a pocket in her boot. “Boring,” she mutters.

That’s when she feels a phantom drop hit her shoulder. Faintly surprised, she glances up to realize the night sky’s cracked open, pitch, and she can already tell it’s going to be pouring in about another second.

The thought’s enough motivation to spur her on to another rooftop on her way home. She only gets about five minutes before her costume’s drenched (as drenched as leather gets, anyway), and it’s hard to see through the onslaught. She supposes it’s fine to slip down to the alley below and wait it out. She finds a closed shop with an overhang, the tacky kind with bars of white and red that are barely visible through the rain. The insides of her shoes feel like marshland.

_Can’t last too long, right?_

Selina’s quickly proven wrong as streaks continue to pelt pavement, sizzling like grease in a pan. She wouldn’t have planned her heist for tonight if she’d known the weather would be this bad, but here she is, bathing in March rain that says it’d be better for her to just hike through the streets (They’ve already been reduced to shallow rivers by now.) than wait. That’s what ends up happening: Selina biting the bullet and sloshing back in a way that makes her glad no one’s pursuing her. She probably looks like—well, like something the cat dragged in. Then again, Bat is probably resembling a wet dog by this point too. The thought is enough to make her snort in humor.

She wasn’t expecting that a small meow would reply.

Selina’s head snaps up, wondering if it was just her imagination.

Another yowl echoes.

No, it’s there. She really doesn’t have time, goosebumps crawling up her skin and a warm bed at home, but it sounded like a cat, and that’s her game. The small thing’s continuing to sob in rain-drowned cries as she follows the trail. Soon enough, she’s found her way to the front of a fire escape, the treads hardly protecting the fuzzy mess puddling beneath it.

It’s part-Manx from what she can guess, a stubby tail lost in calico fur. She’s a little surprised, since they’re not the most vocal breed, but from the looks of it, she’s guessing it must be a stray that got separated from its mom. It lets her close easily enough, big eyes looking upward in expectation, maybe in plea, until the creature’s attention snaps to the side and it darts off.

 _Cookie’ll find him later_ , Selina concludes before her ears prick. She can hear it now too: a patter of sloshing footsteps broken in a run. It only takes an instant for her to slink up the fire escape and wait. Her goggles are lined with rain by this point, but still, Selina can make out enough of the young figure that dashes into view, spinning in place a bit like he’s not sure which direction to go now. She leans forward slightly, head tilted with interest. _Probably a pickpocket that got lost._

Selina leans further over the railing, propping a forearm on it in her best look of confidence.

“Bit late to be out, isn’t it?”

Wide eyes whirl up, and the second they do, it settles that something isn’t right. The kid looks lost, out of breath, terrified. But the thing is, the horror in his face lessens a fraction when his eyes settle on Selina. She was expecting the opposite.

Instantly, she’s skimming him over from the stair’s landing. It’s obvious the boy’s been running from something, his knees bleeding like he’s made a few collisions with cement, and he’s thoroughly drenched, not at all dressed for this kind of storm in now-torn jeans and a sweatshirt. A camera’s dangling from his neck too. Old but expensive. A former rich kid, maybe.

“What’s your name?” she asks seriously, swinging back down to ground-level. The boy flinches back, but his attention is focused mostly on the alley’s entrance.

No one’s there when Selina looks.

“Kid?”

Blue eyes flicker back at the word, refocusing on Selina’s face before the boy manages to form something. “Alvin,” he answers. “My name’s Alvin Draper.”

He’s an awful liar.

Selina can see the falsehood in his face by the way his gaze is too sure. She takes a step closer, and the boy takes another step back in turn, proving her point: He doesn’t trust her.

“Alright then, _Alvin,_ ” Selina relents, stressing the title to prove she’s figured him out. “We can come back to that later. Want to share what you were taking pictures of?”

The boy absentmindedly moves to touch his camera, eyes re-glued to the entry. He doesn’t look particularly guilty over the question ( _Not a peeping Tom_ , Selina concludes gratefully.), but still he replies, “Nothing.” His voice is a hint too high, like he’s expecting death to stroll around the corner. It’s an observation that drives Selina to check the boy over again from a distance. His skin’s too pale, glowing gossamer in the rain and faint streetlights. It doesn’t look right.

“Nothing?” Selina parrots with an eyebrow cocked from behind her goggles. “Just out past three in the morning, in a storm, and—” Her vision catches on the boy’s leg, how his weight’s shifted onto one of them in a way she doesn’t like.

“Who did that?” she asks, taking a few more steps on instinct that the boy returns in reverse, the limp more obvious now. There’s a glint reflecting in one of the cuts that screams broken glass—not pavement collision, and a suspicious amount of red is pooling in the water at his feet, too, crimson tendrils swirling before being punctured by bullets of rain.

It takes the boy’s back hitting against the wall behind for him to squeak out a “no one,” and if he looked skittish before, he’s absolutely horrified now. “No one did anything, so…so just leave me alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone—at a hospital.”

A telling waver of breath and weight pushes Selina to close the distance in an instant; her friend looks like he’s either on the verge of breaking down or passing out, hyperventilating on locked legs and convincing Selina to ease him onto the ground. He flinches away at the touch, which only adds to her concern, but he accepts the help with tightly-closed eyes and a sharp inhale of pain.

“There’s a clinic nearby here,” Selina mutters to herself when she’s peeled back the jean ribbons around his ankle. The skin’s cut pretty deep, exacerbated by movement and chill, and that’s not even accounting for the crimson liquid that’s trickling down into his tennis shoes. Shards of glass are still there. “The place is free of charge, and you can—”

A small hand moves to shove her off, made pathetic from exhaustion. “I can’t. He—he’ll get in trouble.”

“Who?”

“No one,” comes the non sequitur, forced out with a wince. Each breath is nothing more than a string of fraying rope, twisting and splitting, and Selina can hear panic in the inhales.

“Look, kid…” she starts, moving to touch his forehead. His skin’s winter-cold but not hypothermic—yet. He’s probably only been out here for around an hour, although another hour or two with this rain would probably do him in. “You need to see a doctor. This clinic has good people who can help.”

The kid shakes his head in weak adamance. “No hospitals.”

Selina looks him head-on, a seriousness in her face that even Bat would crack at. The boy doesn’t even notice, though; his eyes are trained on some random point on the ground, and he’s obviously focusing on keeping conscious. Shaking fingers are gripping the camera around his neck, like the metal box is his only hope in the world, and Selina wonders why it’s so important to him. Whatever photos he took are probably ruined now: The camera doesn’t look waterproof.

“Alright, fine,” Selina agrees in frustration. “No hospitals. You have a friend I can pass you off to, at least?”

A headshake answers with coughs filling the space instead of words, clipped and harsh as if he just inhaled a cloud of dust. The boy’s breathing is even shallower afterward, looking worse by the minute, and Selina slips her hands under him before he can pull away. He’s surprisingly light—not in a good way.

“No—”

“Hospitals? I gathered.” Selina readjusts her hold a bit more, noticing that the boy’s already half-gone at the contact, all fight draining and leaving him limp. She comes to a decision. “I’ve got a place you can stay for the night.” **_Just_** _the night._

“…no police…?”

“Please,” Selina chides, gentle, “I make a habit of avoiding cops.”

The kid hums in drowsy agreement, eyes closing so there's just ink lashes feathering his cheeks, and it's not another moment that the pair have vanished in the rain.

* * *

 

Ten storm-filled minutes later find Selina fumbling with her window around the feverish form in her arms. The time hasn’t been nice to the kid, his shivering even worse, and Selina’s trying to ignore the way two arms have looped around her neck in an innocent appeal for help. Part of her is saying she should’ve vetoed his hospital demand and taken him there anyway, because cuts, she can handle. Hypothermia, on the other hand, is not her forte.

Windows are apparently another thing that have suddenly stopped being her forte, as the latch is slick-wet and Selina’s never used her feet to break into her own apartment.

A cluster of cats have congregated inside on the sill, watching the struggle occur and wondering why Mom has brought home a human child instead of the usual stray. Eventually, the window slides up, and the cats scatter, dancing around soaked boots that are forming puddles on the laminate. Selina sets the boy down on the couch, ordering him to stay put with a look and a shove back against the cushions before darting off into the bathroom.

“Is Cookie back yet?”

A chorus of meows echo, the kind that only Selina can translate as, “No.”

“Well, keep an eye out,” she replies, sidestepping a cat as she reemerges from the bathroom, now dressed in a nightshirt (The kid probably won’t be able to guess who she is in her civvies anyway.) and carrying a sizeable pile of towels. A burgundy one finds its way onto the boy’s hair, scrubbing out flecks of water, and it isn’t another second that his collection of drenched clothes have been swapped out for a flannel pajama set that luckily fits him. Her new friend’s too cold to be embarrassed, still shaking beneath all the towels with his eyes closed. At least his hair’s mostly dried by now, fluffed up like a newborn chick’s, and a bit of color’s back in his skin, although it might just be rubbed raw from the towels.

By the time a warm compress and blankets have been added (as well as a few heat-seeking cats), blue eyes have cracked open a fraction, just enough to prove the boy’s still conscious somewhere between still-shallow breaths and the occasional murmur of something too quiet to make out.

Selina glances up on occasion when his coughs go longer than she’s comfortable with, but for the most part, she settles into a routine of picking glass out of his left leg. Luckily, the shards aren’t too bad, most of the cuts just deep nicks, but the sparse glass that’s there is splintered something awful; she could make a day out of picking the bits out—might have to, she thinks.

The kid only winces when she maneuvers another piece out, like this is something he’s had to do himself before. Judging by the scarring and bruising she saw in the short span it took to get him undressed, Selina’s guessing he has.

“Cam’ra?”

Green eyes shoot up. The camera’s currently lost in shredded, sopping jeans, and Selina decides not to answer, hoping to save the kid the knowledge that the object’s likely waterboarded beyond repair. “You want to tell me what you were doing out tonight?”

The boy looks genuinely confused, eyebrows pulled up above fuzzy eyes, before some memory must resettle, and he snaps his lids closed again like he’s trying to fend off a bad dream. Selina lets him regroup, another shard clinking in a bin before she speaks again. “How about we retry introductions instead, then.”

A mouth opens and closes, the boy arguing with himself before a name comes out, small but there.

“…Tim.”

“Tim,” Selina repeats, squinting at the glass caught between her tweezers. It’s glinting a honey-brown hue. Bourbon from the smell. It rings in the bin same as the others. “You have a last name, handsome?”

Tim remains characteristically quiet. Smart for a…nine-year-old? He looks nine, but Selina’s not sure about this one, so she asks.

“‘m twelve,” Tim decides after warring with himself again. Selina can tell from his face that it’s the truth, but she’s still surprised. Three years is pretty far off for her, even on a bad day. Maybe the error says more about Tim than it does her, though; he’s too small for his age.

“Twelve, huh?” Selina mirrors with a forced smile, sidestepping that heavy topic and going for a, “First time alone with a lady then, I take it?”

Bleary eyes blink up at her, too out of it to blush probably, and something about that makes her crack a genuine grin. He’s a sweet kid, fluffed-up hair and all, sandwiched between a mound of Maine Coon and Persian. She opens her mouth to try asking for a last name again when a mewl comes from outside.

“Lay back down,” Selina orders, Tim having shifted to better see what’s outside the window. Expected cobalt eyes are shining from behind the rain-fogged pane, telling her Cookie’s back, so Selina slips over. The Balinese is an utterly soaked mess (That much becomes clear when the window’s popped up.), and she has the Manx from before dangling from her mouth. “I knew I could count on you,” Selina comments as Cookie hops in, the kitten set down on the laminate floor.

Both cats are dried fairly quickly, and it’s not long before Selina’s resettled herself on the couch with her human guest. “Can I leave this one with you?” she asks, already maneuvering the kitten into the clump of blankets Tim’s got piled on him. “Tell you what: If you’re good, I’ll let you name him.”

“‘kay,” comes the groggy reply. Tim’s dozing off again. So is the kitten. It’s almost uncanny how they look like one in the same from this perspective, and it’s surprisingly easy for Selina to ruffle the kid’s hair. She tells herself she’s trying to keep him awake (She still has a few more questions for him.), but in truth, Selina’s already grown to like him.

She really hopes the bottle glass in his leg is just from a misunderstanding and not something else. There’s only one way to know for sure, though.

“…Kid?”

Eyes flutter open again, Tim doing his best to keep awake. The blue-white contrast of his eyes make his skin look even paler, and Selina’s not sure why she feels sick at the thought of that.

“Who did this?”

Blue closes, and a long breath fills the kid’s form, his chest rising enough that the movement’s visible. “I can’t.”

Selina busies herself applying rubbing alcohol to a needle, trying to keep patient because Tim seems easy to spook. “Why not?”

“He’ll get in trouble. He didn’t…” Another breath. “He didn’t mean to.”

“To what?”

“Sometimes he just…” Tim’s face tenses. “…He drinks a bit, but it’s not a problem.” It all comes out in one exhale, like if it’s said faster it makes it less real. The statement sounds scarily similar to something Selina once thought about her dad, because it’s never a problem—not until it becomes one.

“He’ll handle it,” Tim continues, shaking a bit now as if the memory’s painful. “He’ll get help, and things’ll be okay.”

“Is that why I’m sticking sutures in you? Because things will ‘be okay?’”

Tim cringes a bit, and Selina’s not sure if it’s because it’s the truth or because it hurts. Probably both. Either way, Tim seems done talking, leaning subtly into the Maine Coon that’s purring beside him, expression pulled tight in stress.

Selina shakes her head with a sigh and begins to work thread through skin. If this is a household thing with Tim, then she’s already been there, and she wishes someone would’ve leveled with her like this back then. Maybe then she could’ve gotten out sooner, realized these things don’t ever just “be okay.” They don’t work like that, no matter how much you wish they would.

A few seconds pass before Tim addresses the question in the air: “What happens now?”

Selina doesn’t glance up as she ties off the suture. “Wherever you came from, I’m not letting you go back,” she says with finality. It’s a bit of a shock how she can feel Tim relax at the words, maybe grateful that the responsibility of a decision is off his shoulders. Selina’s face softens at that, and she meets his eyes. “We can figure it all out tomorrow. For now, just be worried about what my new cat’s name is gonna be.”

The fluffball of kitten is barely visible under a heavy throw, small eyes closed into slits. Tim’s watching the face carefully, allowing Selina to finish wrapping up his leg before he mutters a name.

“Jason.”

Selina stares at Tim for a minute, struggling to concoct a way to inform the kid that Jason isn’t really a cat name. Her Maine Coon’s named Fluffy (cliché but fitting), the Burmese Smokey (again, fitting), and there’s a moggy around here with white paws named Mittens. Even Cookie looks like cookie dough, and a name like Jason would really break her streak.

Tactfully, Selina works her face into one of passive intrigue. “Why that name?” she decides and lets Tim explain.

The answer’s simple. “The black patch on his forehead looks like a bird...” Tim glances up, as if to see if Selina understands why "Jason" fits with “bird.” She doesn’t, really, and the kid looks a tad disappointed. “You can call him Jay as a nickname, like a blue jay." Selina gets the feeling that isn’t the reasoning Tim had in mind, so she runs a finger behind the kitten’s ears.

“Why not just Jay, then?”

Tim shakes his head. “It’s gotta be Jason—'least formally.”

 _Must be someone the kid knew_.

“Alright,” Selina relents, not willing to fight him on something that must be personal. “A promise is a promise: Jason it is.”

Tim gives her some semblance of a smile before his mouth cracks open in a yawn. He looks more sleepy than tired at this point, an improvement, and Selina manages to coax him into taking a painkiller before he’s passed out on the couch, quiet and radiating heat that attracts even more cats.

“Here’s hoping he’s not a tosser, huh, Cookie?” Selina jokes. Mittens has taken refuge in the warm space behind Tim’s kneecaps, and it’s common knowledge that the cat would shriek like a banshee if Tim knocked her off the couch, accident or no.

Cookie doesn’t reply to the jest, tail waving behind her like a feather duster on the floor while her eyes exude interest. She’s always been the smart one, and it’s as if she’s asking Selina why the kid’s here and what she’s got in mind for him.

Selina pulls her gaze away from the feline, her mouth pursing in a look of indecision. In truth, she’s not sure what to do. Her skill set would make finding out Tim’s full name an easy task, but even then, if Tim’s not willing to talk, there’s not too much she can do. On the other hand, if Tim did, that’d mean foster care. An orphanage isn’t appealing either (Selina’s done time in one.), but she can’t just kick the kid out onto the streets.

Selina runs a hand through her hair before drawing herself to a stand. The sun’s just about rising, shining through rain-streaked windows and agreeing that the problem could do with some sleeping on. Cookie doesn’t seem to be on the same page, however, stubbornly slipping between Selina’s feet like water while she makes her way to the other room. A small meow sounds, persistent.

“Stop worrying so much,” Selina soothes in a whisper. “He's only staying for tonight.” And she closes the door.


	4. Second Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for being so patient with me these past months! I promise I'll get back to everyone who commented on the last chapter. (Thank you all a million times over!) In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the next chapter~ <3

“Tonight” turns out to be a short eternity of tossing and turning. Selina does her best to close her eyes, pulls the blankets over her head to block out light. She even goes as far as tossing towels over the curtain rods to help darken the room, but none of it works.

All she can think about is the kid asleep in her living room. She’s imagining the story that led him here and how to help him move on to the next chapter. It’s true what she’d admitted earlier: She can’t leave him on the streets. Can’t send him to Child Services. Can’t do much at all, really.

Selina hates that more than anything.

 _Maybe I’ll talk to Holly about it_ , she muses as she rolls over for the ninth time. They haven’t exactly kept in touch since Selina talked her into joining the convent, but they’ve got history. Holly would know up-and-up places that are taking in children, might even have advice on…whatever it is Tim’s going through.

That’s another point that’s been bothering Selina: She knows hardly anything about what she’s dealing with. An alcoholic, definitely. A family thing, too, by the way Tim didn’t ask for her to take him home.

Selina stuffs her face into a pillow, ignoring the stray cat fur there that tickles her nose.

 _Yeah. Has to be something with his family_. _I just wish I knew more specifics._

There’s one thing that might’ve held a clue to that and it was the kid’s camera. If it’s one of those fancy new digital ones, Selina’s pretty sure the data’s toast. She didn’t really check now that she thinks about it. The device looked a few years old. Maybe if it used film…?

Her mouth scrunches just a bit more, determined. Selina promptly sits up and kicks the blankets off her. The movement disturbs Cookie, but the cat’ll forgive her (probably). Selina doesn’t think too hard on it, just cracks the door slowly and peers into the living room with careful eyes. There’s a small form still on the couch, a slat of light from the nearby window thrown over him, and Selina can catch a steady chorus of breaths and purrs emanating. Her eyes soften at the image, take a second to observe the scene before she fully enters the room.

The camera’s somewhere along the floor if she remembers correctly, so that’s where she heads. Along the way, she spares a moment to brush her fingers along the teen’s forehead. (He’s still warm but not enough to be worrisome.) He sure is a quiet sleeper, though. No wonder the cats have stayed.

Selina smiles faintly at that before setting back into her search. She locates the camera still in his pile of clothes. Then, the real work begins.

Selina’s no photographer, not really. What she is is a thief, and with such an occupation, she’s accrued a long list of foes and allies alike. Lucky for her, one of those allies has an extensive knowledge of camera work—or at least the chemistry involved with it, anyway.

“ _Make sure you have enough rice in the bag_ ,” Job Underhill’s voice comes through the cordless two hours later. “ _Don’t forget to get as much of the air out as you can, too. Oh, and you remembered to keep the sensor covered, right? Otherwise, rice will—_ "

“Job,” Selina interrupts, phone pinned between her ear and shoulder as she holds up a Ziploc bag half-heartedly. The camera’s barely visible inside, lost among a sea of white grains. “Not like I don’t appreciate the help, dear, but I doubt our patient’s going to make it.”

In other words, the camera’s a goner.

The man lets out something resembling a choked sob. The words Nikon 35Ti obviously mean more to him than they do her, although Selina gets it. The more he drabbles on through the phone about photo resolutions and point shooting, the more expensive and high-tech the camera seems.

“A tragedy, I’m sure,” Selina interrupts, returning the bag to the tile of the bathroom floor. “I’m more curious how much longer I have to wait for the film to process. I’ve been going at it with a blow dryer—”

“ _On low, right!?_ ”

“On low,” she affirms patiently, “for an hour. I’m a little pushed for time, so the sooner I can check, the better.”

_“It’s…probably fine. Assuming the film didn’t get too wet, you should be able to salvage some of the shots. I’m more curious why you were taking photos out in the rain in the first place.”_

_I’d like to know the answer to that too,_ Selina doesn’t say.

Tim’s still asleep from what she can hear through the door. She wonders absently how many sleepless nights he’s been forced to weather. Selina’s weathering one for the both of them tonight, as here she sits at one in the afternoon, still in her nightshirt on the bathroom floor. Her vanity’s a warzone torn between skincare products and emulsion cleaner; a developing tank lays gutted on the bathmat behind her; and strings of film dangle like fish from a clothesline strung over the bathtub. It’s going to be an absolute treat to clean up, but if the camera holds a clue to Tim’s past, she’s not going to complain.

“I’ll explain everything later, Job. Until then, thanks for the help.”

_“Anytime.”_

Selina sets the cordless on the floor in exchange for a flashlight. She’s careful with the film as she unpins one of the slips and maneuvers the flashlight behind it. She flicks the switch on.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the brightness, the beams casting the bathroom in eerie splotches of light, but once her pupils level back out, Selina sets into the task with vigor.

True to word, most of the shots are distorted from rain damage. Other images are simply too intricate to make out on the inch-long negatives. Selina scowls, working other frames over the light, one by one. She can make out some of the skyline in the backgrounds. A lot of dangerous areas. Bowery. Crime Alley. Basically every stretch of the Narrows.

_What on earth was Tim doing in places like these?_

Selina pauses on the twelfth frame, tilts her head inquisitively at it. It’s different from the others. There’s no evidence of Gotham dregs, no sky scrapers, sidewalks, or streetcars. Instead, a crowd of umbrellas gleam alabaster on a negative sky. The top half of a building is visible in the background, too, the steepled roof hinting at a church.

Selina memorizes the image thoughtfully, struggling to interpret what it means but knowing deep down it’s important. She can’t tell why. After exhausting it of any more clues, she slips a new frame over the flashlight.

Selina almost drops everything out of pure surprise.

“Bat…?” she whispers to the figure trapped in the image. The monochrome’s inverted, the sprawl of a cape glowing white like angel wings, but she’d recognize him anywhere. It’s him. Selina eagerly moves on to the next frame, devouring the string of images. Things begin to line up, make sense. Some of the earlier frames she can interpret now as well, can see the contours of Batman between the watery marks and halation. It’s almost easy to make out the photos now. It’s the meaning of them all that has her in shock.

_Tim’s been following him._

Why exactly, Selina doesn’t know yet. Regardless, with a revelation like this, she would prefer a week to process it. An hour, at least. All she gets is a hot second, though, as a cat yowl echoes from the living room. Selina instinctively bursts out of the bathroom, blood hot with panic, but nothing is awry aside from Tim having rocketed upright, gaze wide and alarmed as he absorbs where he’s woken up. The teen’s attention swirls to her the moment she rushes in, his mouth cracked open and eyebrows furrowed in horrified question. Selina can tell he’s trying to form words that only come out as clipped what’s and where’s and how’s.

“It’s alright,” Selina’s quick to say, if nothing more than to keep the teen from aggravating his stitches. It seems she’s too late on that front; in the next instant, Tim moves to stand and instead hisses in pain, griping his injured leg. The distraction is enough for Selina to appear directly next to him.

“Catwoman,” the teen gasps. Selina flinches at that. ( _I’m not in uniform. He—He shouldn’t be able to recognize me…_ ) She’s stunned for long enough that her friend’s panic rears its head again, the oxygen squeezing out of his chest and his skin color draining white. “How are…? I don’t—I can’t—"

“Kid, breathe,” Selina orders vaguely, putting off the question of how he nailed her identity so easily. She can grill him about it later. For now, she helps him back onto the sofa before he can further exacerbate his injury. “It was only a bad dream. You’re safe.”

He gazes at her as if at a loss. Maybe he wasn’t even having a bad dream, Selina thinks suddenly. Maybe the nightmare was remembering. There’s nothing she can do to soothe either, though. At least Tim’s breathing’s starting to level back out, like sitting down’s helped his head realign. It could be the cats, too. The ones that scattered earlier during his episode slowly return to jump back up onto the sofa, Fluffy and Smokey swarming on top of him with concerned meows. Even little Jay, who was squirreled off to the kitchenette by a miffed Mittens, hobbles back in to sprawl out underneath a window where the sun’s brightest.

“Where am I…?” Tim manages after a few minutes, more wary than panicked now.

“You’re at my place, sweetheart,” Selina answers while checking his leg. Tim lets her without arguing, watching her face as he pulls Fluffy close to his chest as if in protection. “You’re lucky you didn’t rip any of the stitches,” Selina comments eventually. She starts changing the bandage with a serious expression. “If you need something, ask. You shouldn’t be moving around right now.”

Tim murmurs a soft, “Sorry,” like he doesn’t know what else to say.

Selina notices the awkwardness settling over the both of them. (As slick as she is, even these things get to her after a while.) “Don’t mention it,” she replies squarely, flicking on the tube TV in the corner to war away the silence. _The Gotham Insider_ flashes to life (the last channel she’d had it tuned to). _The_ _Harry_ _Mann Show_ ’s better, but Selina’s suddenly realized she’s starving, too much to bother channel surfing.

“I’m gonna make some breakfast,” she transitions once she’s finished rewrapping Tim’s leg. “What is it you want, handsome? Bacon and eggs? Pancakes? I might have some Kix if you’re in the mood for cereal.”

Tim blinks at her like Selina’s offered him Pinot Grigio and a five-course meal. “I’m alright,” he says, thumbing the back of Fluffy’s ear shyly. The Maine Coon purrs and nuzzles under his chin. “I’m not very hungry. Really.”

Selina scrutinizes him for a full five seconds before deciding, “A bit of everything, then.”

She’s marched over to the kitchenette before Tim can even reply.

Fifteen minutes later find the air baking with the sticky sweetness of pancake batter and the pop of boiled butter on a skillet. Selina flops another sliver of bacon on the pan as the reporter from the TV finishes talking about some sheep from Scotland ( _Feels like the only thing they talk about these days_.), but soon enough, they’ve moved on to the news of Gotham proper. There’s a missing elderly man, one reporter reveals with an overzealous smile. No other missing get mentioned.

It’s a fact that makes Selina wince, considering there’s one ten feet in front of her. No one must’ve reported him yet.

“ _In other news,_ " the anchor continues seriously, " _let’s take a minute to check in with our daily Batwatch_.” Selina’s attention sharpens as much as her face doesn’t betray intrigue. She can tell Tim’s sat up faintly too. He’s clearly invested in what the news has to say ( _Interesting…_ ), and the anchor’s quick to reveal what happened.

Evidently, Bat’s run-in with the Joker last night was a rather nasty affair. A different reporter is at a scene outside the Gotham River Tunnel, detailing Joker’s condition. It’s a long list of injuries Gordon probably tried his best to keep under wraps. A snapped arm is among them. Concussion. Shattered ribs. Probably internal bleeding, too.

Joker deserves all of it and more, but that kind of violence has never been Bat’s thing—not until the past week, that is.

The media’s noticed the shift and so has Selina. Robin’s been MIA for a while now, and the woman prays that doesn’t have anything to do with Bat’s change in attitude. She can’t help the subtle intuition she’s got, though, settling funny in her stomach like a chunk of hot metal. If her hunch about Robin is true, then…

…Then, there’s nothing she can do.

Selina’s sighs and turns back to wedge her spatula underneath an egg.

In the interim, the TV continues throwing out opinions on Batman’s violence with Joker. There’s a pathetic sap of a psychologist on as a guest, more idiot than clinician from the sound of things. Throwing a strip of bacon Mitten’s way makes the man more tolerable.

 _“…As I’ve detailed in my latest book,_ I’m Sane and So are You _, patients like the Joker are merely misunderstood. In fact, I believe the Joker’s actions last night were a cry for help.”_

_“Joker, give a cry for help?”_

“ _Exactly_ ,” the man blabs on, oblivious to the fact the interviewer sounds like she wants to facepalm so hard her head would pop off. “ _Gotham’s done a sad job of aiding our mentally divergent, begotten by incompetent police and ruthless vigilantism. One might add the only common link shared by most, if not all, of those incarcerated at Arkham is none other than the Batman, himself. Indeed, Linda, the Batman’s excessive force tonight may well come back to haunt—”_

Selina flicks the set off decisively.

Bat may have been a pain in her neck more than once, but he doesn’t deserve judgement from self-righteous morons.

Selina huffs as she slides a tray onto the side table nearest Tim. The teen hardly seems to notice, gaze glazed as he continues to watch the fading glow of the screen.

Selina pauses curiously at that. She almost moves to shake Tim’s shoulder but decides against it. (She’d rather not spook him.) In the end, the woman settles down in the tufted loveseat across from him, nursing a bowl of Special K with a question in her eyes.

Strangely enough, Tim doesn’t shift for a long time. He looks like he’s been thrown back to something he hasn’t thought about for years but remembers intimately. Selina studies his expression over her cereal with pinched eyebrows. That level of gravity looks wrong on a child’s face, and she wonders idly what he’s thinking.

It takes her a moment to realize she already knows.

The realization hits her slow, the kind that doesn’t spring and merely sifts out until the truth remains. The camera film is still in the bathroom behind her, the reality burning into her back like her spine’s melted into magma, and Selina thinks… She thinks she may have seen the River Tunnel among one of the photos. None of them had Robin in them; they’re recent shots. The timing of when she found Tim and the events with Joker line up too perfectly as well. It can’t mean anything else.

“You were there last night…weren’t you?”

Gradually, Tim’s focus ebbs and floats toward her. He doesn’t ask how she figured it out, just meets the green of her irises with a quiet look.

“You saw everything.”

Tim still doesn’t respond, doesn’t nod or refute. It’s like talking with a ghost through some invisible wall she can’t breach. Selina lets the silence drag, just to see if Tim breaks, but he never does. She can only imagine what seeing violence like that could do to someone, but…it doesn’t do anything to explain his leg; there are pieces of this puzzle still missing.

“You’re a real mystery, you know that?” Selina exhales, gives up the waiting game to set her bowl of cereal milk on the laminate for Cookie to lap at. The Balinese takes to it, and she runs a hand along the cat’s spine and off her puff of a tail. “Might help if you talked a little. I’m not the greatest listener, but I will if you need me to.”

She can tell Tim’s considering the offer as he pulls the blanket closer around himself. He looks horribly young that way. “I can't go back,” Tim whispers after a moment, near-silent. He stills for an eternity before cracking his mouth back open, eyes closed like a tidal wave of words are going to come spilling out and drown them all.

Everything comes undone when someone knocks on the door.

Selina has half a mind to cuss out the sorry soul who’s poised on the other side. She swallows down the urge, though: With the way Tim’s wedged himself back into the corner of the couch, breath held, she decides letting off steam isn’t the best move.

“It’s probably my landlord,” Selina explains swiftly. “Nothing to worry about.” Tim doesn’t relax in the slightest, coiled up like a spring set too tight, but she doesn’t have the time to say more. The person has resumed another round of knocks that call Selina over, a heft to them that evinces impatience—Definitely Orsini. “One minute,” Selina barks, yanking a bathrobe off the back of a chair and pulling the tie tight before sliding off the chain lock.

She was right: It’s just her landlord. He’s a gruff guy with a loud voice, but he’s fair as far as landlords go here. Selina can tell Orsini notices Tim on the couch, once-overs him from the doorway in that skeptical way he does with everyone he doesn’t know. Tim pales noticeably at the look; Selina’s quick to draw Orsini’s attention back. Turns out, all the man wants is to ask if she’s having problems with working the dial-up (She isn’t.), so it makes for a short conversation.

“Sorry about that,” Selina excuses as she slips the bolt back into place over the door. “Orsini means well. It’s just that he…”

Selina stops.

The couch is vacant.

“Kid?” she asks, taking a step forward while her eyes scan the room. Her muscles lock in panic: He’s not here.

Selina spins in place once more, just to make sure she’s covered all parts of the space. The woman can already feel herself gravitating toward the bathroom where she knows she left her phone. Tim doesn’t want the police involved—She gets that, but if he’s out wandering by himself in his shape, he’s going to get himself killed. A moment later and Selina’s already retrieved the cordless, starts punching in numbers when a sliver of red catches her eye from the floor.

Her eyes flicker back, register what it is.

Slowly, Selina’s arms slip down to her sides, the phone hitting uselessly against her thigh. The air feels ten degrees colder suddenly. That chill raises the hair on the back of her neck, and even the light filtering in through the window seems drained of color. All that’s left are sparkles of dust that glow with a vestigial sadness.

“Tim…” Selina repeats quietly, says the name with a softness she didn’t know she had. Pine wood lays smooth against the pads of her fingers as she kneels down beside the dining table. She almost can’t bear the sight there beneath it, a teen’s knees pulled tight against his forehead with clawed knuckles void of color. There’s a small trail of blood carving its way down the bones of his feet, but that’s not what matters right now.

Orsini…He must’ve scared him.

That’s all Selina can guess, and it’s like another piece of the puzzle falls into place, one that more and more resembles the way she grew up herself. Seeing this... It makes her remember her own nightmare of a home. Makes her remember the jaundice blossom of bruises that wilt back into white, that horrifying but peaceful knowledge that any breath could be her last.

She didn’t realize.

Didn’t know it was this bad for Tim too.

One of her hands finds its way to the teen’s back, just to test the water. Nothing happens, so Selina lets it stay there, memorizes the softness of the red-print flannel and the tightness of muscles stretched over shoulder blades beneath her palm.

“It’s alright,” she whispers, wills herself to make the words believable even as her face breaks. Tim’s grip loosens just enough for her to tip him into her arms, and she can’t help but repeat herself at that. She’d say the words every day of her life if it’d make things just a bit better. “It’s alright now. I promise.”

Tim doesn’t say anything for the longest time, doesn’t even cry, just lets her hold him. The settling of the apartment is audible to the both of them, the groan of wood as winter fades. Even the cats have stilled. The quiet of it all freezes the atmosphere, leaves the immediate world a sepulcher of bygone childhoods neither of them even had.

Tim’s the first to break the silence, voice painfully small.

“’M’sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Selina answers immediately, teasing a lock of his hair between her fingers. “I know what it’s like. I get it.”

Tim shifts a bit, almost in disbelief. “…You do?”

Selina nods against the top of his head, pulling him tighter as if to emphasize her point. She hates to admit it, but it’s the truth. “Yeah, I do.”

Tim hesitates but rotates his torso enough to loop an arm around her in turn, fingers curling against her bathrobe. The gesture feels borderline desperate. “How do you deal with it…when it gets bad?”

Selina absorbs the question with a lengthy inhale. “…I learned how to fight back, I guess,” she answers. “What I do as Catwoman—It makes it easier sometimes. Helping people” Selina brushes the kid’s hair back behind his ear. The tendrils slip out instantly, and Tim tilts his face up before Selina can fix them. There’s a grave glow in the blue of his eyes, irises fractured by Luna moth green that’s only visible up close and in the dark.

“Teach me…?”

Selina flinches at that. It’s the last thing she was expecting. She pushes the teen out a bit, just to get a better look at his face. “Kid, I don’t think it’s… That works for me, sure, but for you… It’s not the answer to something like this.”

Tim doesn’t break eye contact, a thoughtful air about him. She can already tell he’s asking her if there even is an answer, and he’s right: There isn’t—at least, not one Selina’s found. There are only palliative things, the thrill of the edge and the kindness of the strangers she helps. They’re small things, but they’re worth it.

Tim has that same kind of glint in his eyes right now, a resolution in his frame that reminds her of Holly. Reminds her of herself, eight-years-old again and sitting on a Gotham curb with the smell of exhaust on her tongue and no place to go. She still has that same dream in her chest from when she was young, that desire to make sure the things she’s seen never happen to anyone else.

Selina forces the thought away, makes herself think back to Holly because she’s been down this road before. It doesn’t do kids good in the end—the life Selina has to offer.

“Please,” Tim says, an innocence in the curl of his eyelashes that she wishes would never fade. The reality of Gotham streets would rob him of that, she’s certain. It’s an unforgiving world. Tim already knows that, though, and Selina can’t help but wonder if facing that reality’s the only chance he has to break his own silence. Maybe that truth is why he’s been following Batman, and maybe… Maybe this decision was made a long time ago.

Selina sighs, trying to fight away the regret she already feels. She should take him to CPS, should take him to the shelter downtown. Anywhere that doesn’t involve what she’s about to do. Instead, she simply prays she’s done enough good in the world for this not to turn sour. She really hopes so.

“Had to hit my vice, huh?” Selina murmurs, half to herself as she cards a hand through Tim’s hair with a sorrowful affection she shouldn’t have but does. “I never _could_ turn down a handsome pair of blues.”

There’s an expanse of pause. Then, Tim’s face splits into a grin, the first she’s ever seen from him. His teeth are crooked with a child’s charm, and his face is bright. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Selina returns, trying to keep herself from outright melting at the glow the kid exudes. She can already see sparks of promise in him. “But first thing’s first: There’s gotta be some changes here.” She motions to the space between them before holding out her hand. “For starters, I’m not Catwoman here. It’s just Selina. Selina Kyle.”

Tim stares at the hand for a second, hesitates before taking it. “Timothy Drake.”

It’s a full name. A vulnerability.

“It’s a pleasure,” Selina acknowledges, because that’s what makes the exchange meaningful—that openness: It’s a silent pact, something to cement that they’re in it together. That this is real. For whatever reason, it feels different from Holly, glistens with the hope that things will turn out better. Selina will make sure it does.

In the next instant, a storm of fluff splits the space between them, Cookie breaking up the moment with a whip of her tail as she clambers onto Tim’s lap. Turquoise cat eyes crane Selina’s way with a certain knowingness. “I knew you were keeping him,” the look says. ( _Cheeky_.) But Tim only laughs, a sunny sort of sound like budding leaves in the breeze, as he accepts his fate of having to pet the animal for the next thirty minutes. Selina shakes her head with a smile, a nascent fondness blooming. It’s truly amazing, she thinks right then, huddled beneath a kitchen table with the sound of near-forgotten laughter in her ears.

It’s amazing how life is never afraid of giving second chances. 

* * *

 

It’s almost like breathing Gotham air is different tonight. There’s a fog about the sky that stings, twists and writhes like the world knows a line’s been crossed that can’t be uncrossed. Bruce has to hold his breath for a few seconds against the stale bite of it.

“You did the right thing, son,” Jim comments through a thread of tobacco smoke. Bruce hardly hears it. He’s watching the smoke dissipate, lost to the weak streetlights below the police station. It’s been hours, and he still can’t believe he almost did it, can’t believe his vision went so red that he couldn’t see morals or mission. Even Mom and Dad faded away. Just for that one minute.

“How is he?”

Jim shoots his friend a look over his glasses and blows out another stream of smoke through his nose. “He’ll live, if that’s what you’re asking. A lot of broken bones, concussion. Not bad enough for him to stop laughing, the medics said.”

Bruce doesn’t reply. He’s wondering if Joker was laughing then too, when Jason was…

And there’s that small part of Bruce, back again like a torrent and singing that tonight he didn’t go nearly far enough. A hospital or jail cell is too light a punishment, it argues, reasons some people don’t deserve second chances, because Jason will never get that chance. No. All he gets is six feet of dirt and one headstone that can never quite capture the life it instantiates.

“Joker’ll be back in Arkham once General’s finished,” Jim’s voice cuts through, and he holds his pipe in his fingers consideringly. “The people up top are looking into newer designs, lessen escapes and things. Skowcroft’s promising me he’ll see them through this time.” Jim shakes his head, a silent condemnation of mayoral politics. He returns his pipe to his mouth. “I’ll do my best to see the changes make it in.”

Bruce doesn’t comment, just takes in another lungful of stale air. There _is_ something different about it, his brain realizes belatedly, registers a fact that’s been itching at his brain but is taking time to hit: Last week, Jason was breathing the same air.

“I’ve seen plenty of fine cops lose their cool before, son,” Jim asserts, like Bruce is a drowning man and he’s trying to see if throwing a line will do any good. “People who’ve lost less and let it get the best of them. You didn’t let it win out. That's what matters.”

Silence.

“You did good.”

Bruce spends another moment looking out into nothingness, indexing each piece of it and coming up short. He’d trade it all for a second chance if he could, but that’s not how life works: There are no trades, no black and white, no fair plays. Just gray.  

“Maybe so,” Bruce acquiesces, more to himself than anyone else. A whirl of wind tugs at his cape then, tugs at the words. “…But not good enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to give this story a late-90s/early-2000s vibe, so there's ample reference to things from that period. Of course, there are plenty of comic references in here as well. If anyone wants my sources for further reading, feel free to let me know. ^-^
> 
> -Job Underhill is a chemist appearing in Catwoman #6 (1993). He is familiar with both Catwoman and an in-disguise Selina. He doesn’t realize they’re the same person.  
> -Simpson Flanders is a regular during the Knightfall comics. A lot of his dialogue here I lifted directly from those. He talks with the Gotham Insider in Detective Comics #659 (1973), and he also makes a guest appearance on The Harry Mann Show in the proceeding issue. Mann was the host who gave Sanders the most flack for his opinions. I feel like Selina would like him.  
> -The Nikon 35Ti came out in 1993. It’s a pocket camera that cost around a grand back then (That’s without inflation, too. O-O), and even today, it’ll still run you a couple hundred bucks. Apparently it's well-worth the money, though.  
> -The sheep referenced here is Dolly the Sheep, the first mammal successfully cloned from somatic cells. The media hype surrounding the success and its moral implications carried on for quite some time after the breakthrough was revealed in February 1997.


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